


Observation, Conclusion

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Archie likes being watched, Banter, Dirty Thoughts, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, Kinky, M/M, Masturbation, Naughtiness, Sexual Fantasy, Teasing, Voyeurism, period-accurate sexual slang because i can?, why is everything i write in this fandom kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Archie puts on a show for Wolfe who may or may not be watching from the alcove. That's it, that's the fic.





	Observation, Conclusion

**Author's Note:**

> (Real talk: I have a deep and intense dislike of all my Nero Wolfe fanfiction because (like most of what I write) I think it's utter garbage, but the only way to improve my writing is to keep practicing, so here we find ourselves. I don't know why everything I've been writing for this fandom is kinky af but there you have it. :I I can't write Archie's POV to save my life but I try. Mea culpa and all that.)

* * *

The first thing I noticed was that a mirror had replaced the trick picture of the waterfall that serves as a secret viewing point from the alcove into the office. I would’ve bet my license on the fact that it was one-way glass then and there, even without the second clue: that the red leather chair had been turned to face it. This was no small feat, as the chair was heavy and, if moved incorrectly, could scrape along the floor. There was no doubt in my mind Wolfe had seen to it personally and if he was willing to so greatly exert himself, I knew it was because he had another kind of physical activity on his mind.

My heart beat a little faster at the thought and I glanced over at the innocuous mirror that was mounted next to me. I had no way of knowing if he was behind it, though I’d hazard a guess that he was, as there was no other reason he’d go to the trouble of turning the chair. Still, the fact of the matter was that I couldn’t be sure unless I checked, and checking would spoil it. As it was, no one could’ve been back there, or someone other than Wolfe, and with a bit of imagination I was able to imagine everyone from friends to colleagues to a particularly strict school teacher of mine from my boyhood years in Chillicothe lurking back there, and it was enough to make my cheeks bloom with a hot flush of shame.

Fortunately for me, I didn't mind. If I couldn't handle a hot flush of shame now and again, I’d never have agreed to this particular game in the first place, so I let the spike of heat the humiliation brought me throb warmly in my gut for a while, reveling in it as I made sure the door was shut and locked behind me.

I made no great show of removing my hat and jacket, though I wouldn’t say I rushed, either. I took some care to remain turned towards the mirror, appearing nonchalant and unawares, my body angled to offer the most flattering display of my frame that I could manage without looking deliberately provocative. I cast another furtive glance towards the glass, even though I knew that it would cheapen the illusion somewhat, and of course, I saw nothing but my own pink, slightly damp visage peeping back at me.

Tie pin next, then tie, then cuff-links. Sleeves loose, I slipped my arms out of my suspenders and let them fall around my hips, tugging my shirt out from my waistband. I scratched my neck and ran a hand over my jaw. I could do with a shave, I noticed – I’d been so busy that morning I’d missed a patch near my chin. I suspected Wolfe would want to watch that too – me, stripped to the waist, lathering up at the sink. I didn’t mind – he occasionally asks to take over and he makes more of an effort than I do to ensure I don’t wind up with any nicks or scratches. He’s a little overgenerous with the aftershave sometimes, but I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was unnervingly quiet. The slightest rustle of fabric was unbelievably loud and, every bit as attracted to trouble as I was as a kid, that much solemnity made me antsy. I had to move – I felt like I was buzzing with some kind of electrical current. I began to unbutton my shirt and chanced another glance. The me in the mirror looked a sight, half-dressed, sweating, with a distinctly unmistakable ridge proudly casting a shadow where it strained against the gabardine of my trousers. There was no passing it off as anything but what it was, and that tickled me. I watched myself in the mirror – appearance of innocence be damned – and couldn’t help but feel a bit of a thrill at how I looked, and how I must’ve looked to him.

I took my shirt off, bundling my undershirt up with it and tossing both to the floor. The messiness and lack of care for my personal property would irk him, but in situations such as this, I found he liked to be irked just enough to get his blood up. I stretched luxuriantly, then sat down in the red leather chair, legs splayed, pants still on. The wool was taut against my lap, and the tableau was charmingly pornographic. I pretended to scratch my stomach, trailing a hand down, down, until it settled just to the side of the tented fabric. I rubbed the back of my thumb against myself and sighed, eyes falling half shut, hips scooting forward a bit of their own accord.

It felt better than it had any right to. Just this – a scant touch and the implication – the hope – that he was there. If he wasn’t, well, no harm no foul, I supposed, but somehow it stung, the thought of putting on a show for no one in particular. I wanted his eyes on me; all that intensity I knew could fill them set a fire under my skin. I could imagine them so clearly that they were a palpable weight on me, kissing over my face, raking through the sparse hair on my chest, pushing my legs wide apart to get at the goods. He could have walked in the door just then and told me to run stark naked down the street and I’d have done it, just to have him look at me some more.

I was worked up enough that the pants had to go, and quick, before things got messy. Spot-cleaning a stain off of my second-best work suit wasn’t how I wanted to spend the evening. I fumbled with my buttons, clumsy in my haste, and shoved all the material down and off the three-piece set. Anticipation made my heart skip a beat and I could hear his voice, murmured low in my ear, chiding me for being too excitable, or making smart comments about stamina and maturity and all sorts of wonderfully degrading things. I gave up on finesse, teasing giving way to urgency as I spat into my cupped palm and took a firm hold of myself.

Sweating as I was, my agates immediately stuck to the leather of the chair, and every little movement I made provided a glorious, depraved sort of friction. I’d have to clean the seat as much for the sake of my own sanity as for sanitation or else I’d crack the next time some pretty young teary-eyed thing came in and sat on it. If she didn’t guess why I blushed, it’d still be wrong, and if she did, it’d be wrong and a merit slap in the face for me. That thought was stimulating in its own right and baldy gave a jump at the prospect.

I couldn’t help but wish I could hear Wolfe, if not see him. The way his breathing would change, the way he’d rumble with satisfaction when I hitched my leg up, trying to show off everything at once, be as lewd and on-display as I could. I wished, not for the first time when doing something like this, that I could be all spread out like a Picasso, all my best parts visible at the same time. I wondered if I couldn’t ask around and find an artist who could paint something to that effect. I’d never modeled nude before but I knew I’d like it, and the look on Wolfe’s face if I gave him such a painting would be worth any indignity and expense.

Of course, if it was abstract enough, he might choose to hang it somewhere people would see. I might have to conduct interviews or write reports or sock malingerers in the jaw beneath the cubist likeness of my genitalia, and while it was a titillating prospect, I like being clear-headed when I’m working.

He’d enjoy it, though, teasing me with it, making me squirm and get hot under the collar while Cramer mutilated a cigar two feet away.

That shouldn’t have been what did it, but it was. Mortification lit the fuse and a few pulls were enough to ignite it. I caught the worst of the mess with my hand, but a few drops made it onto my stomach, and one landed on the floor between my feet. I stared down at it weakly, too boneless to move, and sagged back into the chair in exhaustion. I watched my reflection’s chest rise and fall. My eyelids felt like they had weights on them. I knew I’d have to get up eventually, but I couldn’t find the strength to lift a finger.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, exactly, but it was long enough to try the big man’s patience. When the door opened, I felt a bolt of fear strike me, as – while I enjoyed the _thought_ of being caught – the reality of having poor Fritz stumble across such a scene was hardly a fair one, as I could bet there was nothing in his job description that accounted for sticky, naked Goodwins. It was Wolfe, though; of course it was. When I saw the slightly exasperated, slightly hungry look on my employer’s face, I relaxed immediately.

“Get up,” he said. “You can’t stay there all night. It’s deplorable.”

“I’m worn out,” I replied flatly. “It’s a lost cause. You’ll have to carry me.”

“Pfui.”

I was content to make him wait, even as I peeled myself off the chair and retrieved my handkerchief from my discarded clothes, wiping up all that needed wiping. That done, I yawned and stretched again, languid, in the way I knew he liked.

“Archie,” he growled, and it was a promise as much as a warning.

“How about a compromise? Let’s go to your room,” I suggested, feigning innocence as I stuffed my legs into my pants, foregoing underwear. It’d chafe a bit, but the jaunt upstairs wouldn’t take long and I’d be naked again soon enough.

“… satisfactory,” he conceded, and wouldn’t you know it? It was.


End file.
